


On The Case Again

by afteriwake



Category: Criminal Minds, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:04:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This case was a chance for both Sherlock and Prentiss to get back in the thick of things, back to solving the complicated and twisty cases, and maybe find a new friend as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had planned on this being my second entry for the **holmes_big_bang** community on Livejournal but I knew there was no way it would get finished in time for the rough draft deadline so I withdrew it; this way, I can work on it at my own leisure.

He had missed this. The thrill, the rush, the feeling he had when he was presented with a complicated case that no one else could solve. But it was different now. Now, he didn’t have John by his side. John wasn’t speaking to him, which even Sherlock realized was fully normal and rational. After all, he had faked his death and been gone for three years. He had lied to nearly everyone he cared about, and though he had done it for them, to keep them safe, he knew there were still going to be hurt feelings all around.

He was alone at 221B Baker Street, with the exception of Mrs. Hudson, who was also giving him a chilly reception. John had left in the three years he’d been gone, moved out to marry a woman named Mary, and he was happy. He was expecting his first child, or so Sherlock had heard. The fact that his friend had found love and was happy meant a lot to Sherlock, but it saddened him as well. He felt he had lost John over this, and with him having a new life with new priorities he doubted he would ever get his friend back, and he knew even if he did it wouldn’t be the same.

The others took him back more easily. Molly had known, having been his secret keeper. She had helped him fake his death, and she had been the one he kept in touch with. Over time Lestrade had figured it out as well, as Molly had mentioned it in a letter. She was still at St. Bart’s, he was still in Scotland Yard, though their attachment to him had dimmed their careers a bit. Though apparently neither of them minded; when he came around to see them they were both pleased it was all over, happy that he was safe, glad he had returned. It had made for a different experience.

His brother had known he was alive as well. Mycroft had his hands in everything, and he hadn’t been able to hide well enough from his brother. His brother had contacted him at various points in his journey, delivering news of his friends, and when he had returned it had been Mycroft that had set about debunking the claims that he was a fake. Slowly, people started to believe the truth, that Moriarty was a liar and Sherlock was the real deal, but there were still some, like Donovan and Anderson, who chose to believe the worst. He knew they would continue to believe that, even with proof presented that it was a falsehood, because that was the type of people they were.

None of that mattered today, however. He was embroiled in a case that was challenging and intriguing, and it was bringing him up out of his own depths to a place that was familiar and felt good. He looked over at Lestrade as they walked down the street, paper cups filled with coffee in their hands. They were on their way to the second crime scene, going over the particulars of what Sherlock had been able to figure out in the meantime.

“You know I might have to work this in conjunction with INTERPOL, don’t you?” Lestrade said as he took a sip of his coffee. “Clyde Easter was all right, but the new person in charge…she’s an American who used to be a profiler in the FBI. I get a strange feeling when I’m in the same room with her, like she’s trying to figure me out.”

“Profilers have a habit of doing that,” Sherlock said. “It’s why I prefer not to work with them.”

“Well, you don’t have much of a choice in the matter this time, I’m afraid,” Lestrade said, stopping dead in his tracks. Sherlock took one step ahead before noticing and stopped. Lestrade pointed in front of them, and Sherlock allowed his gaze to go in that direction. There was a woman standing there, around his own age, chatting with Donovan. She wore a tailored suit jacket in dark gray with matching pants and a purple T-shirt underneath, under a long black trench coat, and had dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. “That’s Emily Prentiss right there.”

“I suppose no one told you your case was being handled with INTERPOL’s co-operation, then,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade sighed. “She’s talking to Donovan. That’s going to cloud her judgment on your involvement. Might as well go fix the damage.” He began walking again, Sherlock in step with him. They made it to the two women and Lestrade looked at Donovan and Prentiss. “Emily,” he said with a nod.

“Greg,” she said with a nod of her own and a smile to boot. “Sorry we didn’t contact you earlier. I happened to be nearby so I figured I’d come in and offer our services and help coordinating with the FBI.” Then she turned to Sherlock. “You must be Sherlock Holmes. Clyde told me an awful lot about you.”

“Good, I hope?” he said.

“Most of it. He did say you could be an arse but you were quite brilliant.” She extended her hand for him to shake, and he did. “The FBI is sending some agents here. I know it started off as a single homicide, but with the murder of an American and the missing girls…” She trailed off, looking back at Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded. “Of course. This would be something right up your alley. Are you going to be helping?”

“I might stick around and toss my two cents into the profiling, but no. I’ll mostly be hands off for this. After all, I don’t have any authority to arrest anyone. I’m just here to facilitate and help as best I can.” Then she turned back to Sherlock. “I would appreciate it if you stayed on the case, Mr. Holmes. Without your contributions we never would have known about the missing girls. Perhaps you can put our databases and such to good use?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Certainly…” He wasn’t sure how to address her for a moment. There wasn’t a wedding band on her finger, but he didn’t know if she’d been married before. And she had addressed him as Mr. Holmes, and he thought it best to respond in kind. “Ms. Prentiss.”

“You can call me Emily, if you want,” she replied. “It might be easier.”

“Very well,” he said with another nod. “You may address me as Sherlock.”

Lestrade looked at Donovan. “What’s known about the crime scene?”

Donovan looked at Lestrade and Prentiss and avoided Sherlock’s eyes before looking down to her notebook. “The victim’s name is John Berlanti. He’s an American citizen here on a work visa, and the flat was rented to him. His landlady said she hadn’t seen him for a week, and yesterday they noticed an awful smell. The place has been tossed, but no one can tell what’s missing and what isn’t. There were no signs of a computer, however, and it looked like there had been one in there before since there’s a printer on the desk.”

Lestrade nodded and turned to Sherlock. “I think you might be a big help in figuring out what’s gone, Sherlock.”

“I can try.” Sherlock set his coffee on the ground near Donovan, then ducked under the crime scene tape, and Lestrade and Prentiss followed. He walked up the steps into the building, pulling out his gloves as he did, and he put on the gloves before opening the door and letting himself inside. Once in there the smell of death was unmistakable. He had to have been in the apartment for a few days for it to get this bad. It didn’t bother him too much, but it did trigger an unwanted memory from his time taking down Moriarty’s network. He paused for a moment as the memory flashed, crystal clear in his mind, a memory of having to sit in a room with a dead body for two days, waiting for the dead man’s partner to arrive so he could interrogate him. He shook his head to clear it and then surveyed the crime scene.

It was indeed a disaster, but Sherlock could tell a lot of it was sloppy housekeeping. It was only in the area where the man’s desk was that it went beyond living in a pigsty. He pulled open the drawers of the desk and found one to be locked. Someone tried to quickly break into it but hadn’t been able to. He pulled out his kit to pick locks and got to work. Within moments he had it open, and he pulled out a bundle of letters and photographs. Some letters had a photograph of a young girl paper clipped to it, and other photographs were just bundled in with the letters. “I believe the problem of the missing girls may be more extensive than originally thought,” he replied, holding up the bundle and then handing it to Lestrade as he got nearer.

Lestrade flipped through them with Prentiss looking over his shoulder. “Wait a second,” Prentiss said, and Lestrade stopped. “This was a girl who was missing in New York. And this girl too.” She pulled out two pictures in her gloved hands. “One of my last cases in the FBI dealt with a serial killer who kidnapped his victims and then buried them in upstate New York. These two girls were suspected to be victims but we didn’t get any DNA matches on the victims we found.”

“That’s unusual,” Lestrade said.

“I may ask for some members of my old team to be sent here instead, people who worked on the serial killer case,” she replied. She looked to Lestrade. “Can I keep these for a moment?” Lestrade nodded, and she moved to the side to make a phone call. Sherlock heard her say “Hey, Hotch” but then tuned out the rest of her conversation.

“Murder, human trafficking and now serial killers?” Lestrade said to him, shaking his head. “I have no clue what kind of case we stumbled into.”

“A rather intriguing one,” Sherlock murmured, taking the loose photograph on top. He turned it over and saw writing on the back, though it appeared to be gibberish. “There’s some sort of code on the back of the photograph.”

Lestrade pulled out another one and flipped it over. “It’s on the back of this one, too.”

Sherlock put his photograph back and pulled out a letter. “The letters appear to be in code as well.”

“Are you good with codes?”

“Fairly decent,” he replied.

“Then why don’t you get to work on them? I’ll have these taken into evidence and then turned over to you to go through.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very well.”

“Anything else you can tell us?”

“He was sloppy. A lot of the mess in this room is the result of poor upkeep, and the haphazard way the letters are arranged indicates he was untidy in his affairs in accordance with whatever his role was. But they were locked up, which means he considered them to be of some value. Whoever killed him tried to break open the drawer I found them in but either gave up or was scared off. With my lock pick it only took me a few moments to break into it, so I believe the person who tried to take them was inexperienced. May I see the body?”

Lestrade nodded and led him into the kitchen. “Here you go.”

Sherlock bent down and examined the body, using his pocket magnifying glass at some points. “The inexperience carries over into the act of killing. This may have been his first time killing, or at least his first time killing by stabbing.” He rolled the body over and looked at it. “There are hesitation marks in the initial stab wounds. This was very likely his first time killing a person by these means. Will you make sure Molly gets the body?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Lestrade said. “It’s a good thing she’s still talking to you.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Of course, she knew from the outset that I was planning on faking my death. Others did not.”

Lestrade was quiet for a moment. “John still isn’t talking to you?”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s been a month. He’s cordial at best, but our conversations are short and to the point. I’ve stopped coming up with reasons to contact him and am letting him decide when it is time to come to me. I believe that’s the best course of action.”

“You’re probably right,” Lestrade said as Prentiss came back over to them. “Well?”

“I talked to my old boss at the FBI. They’re a little busy right now, but he can spare Agent Derek Morgan and Agent Jennifer Jareau, and we’re allowed to use their tech specialist Penelope Garcia. Dr. Spencer Reid may come over as well if they finish the case they’re working on and we still need help.”

“Aren’t Morgan and Penelope your friends that were here for the Olympics that I worked with?” Lestrade asked after a moment.

Prentiss smiled and nodded. “Yeah, that’s them. Derek was supposed to come visit anyway in two weeks so he’s just going to come early and take some additional vacation time if we finish before his vacation starts.”

“It must be nice to work with old friends,” Sherlock said.

“It will be, though it’s been…” She paused for a moment. “Two years since the last time I saw JJ, and about eight months since the last time I saw Derek.”

“Perhaps we can go into detail about what we found?” Lestrade said.

“Of course. I saw the writing on the back of the photos,” Prentiss replied. “Do you have anyone good at cracking codes?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “He once cracked a cipher using the London A – Z Guide that involved international art thefts.”

“I’d heard about that,” Prentiss said, looking at Sherlock with a smile. “That was impressive, figuring out they were using a common book to crack the code.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d like to start on the codes sooner rather than later, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Lestrade said. “I’ll have this taken into evidence. Anything else we should collect?”

“The contents of his desk, and all his books. Unless he had memorized the code the key to breaking it may be in those things.” He handed Lestrade back the letter and peeled off his gloves. “I would also suggest you dust the photographs and letters for prints before you give them to me, to see who else may have handled them.”

Lestrade nodded. “I’d planned on it.”

“Very well. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off.” Sherlock turned to go.

“Is it all right if I call you, to see how the case is going and to introduce you to my friends when they arrive?” Prentiss asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.” He pulled out his phone. “What is your phone number?” Prentiss gave it to him, and then he gave her his number. “I will call the both of you if I get any more leads.”

“Hopefully we’ll hear from you soon,” Prentiss said with a grin. 

He returned it with a slight one of his own and then went out the door, stopping only to pick up his now lukewarm cup of coffee. Donovan glared at him but he tried his best to ignore her. He walked down the street and tried to think about what he had seen at the home and glimpses of code he had seen. If nothing else, he now had another challenge in front of him, and if he could crack it perhaps he could help solve more than just two murders. But it was strange doing this without an assistant, and once again he wished John was there.

He finally saw a cab coming and hailed it. It stopped and he got inside, giving him his home address. He attempted to go into his mind palace during the ride but his mind kept flashing to the memory triggered by the smell at the man’s apartment. He didn’t like thinking about the three years he was away from home. He tried to lock those memories and feelings up in a vault in his mind, where he didn’t have to deal with them. He knew his few remaining friends were worried for him, as well as his brother. He had had to do things that he didn’t like to think about, and he was sure if the others knew they’d be even more worried, so he kept the memories to himself.

The cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street and he paid the driver and got out. Mrs. Hudson was leaving, and she gave him a half smile as he stepped out. “A cab, just what I needed,” she replied.

“It’s all yours,” Sherlock said.

“Thank you,” she said. She paused next to him, and tentatively put a hand on his arm. “There’s a letter for you inside. It’s from John. He hand delivered it today, while you were out at the crime scene.”

“Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Hudson,” he said with a nod.

She removed her arm. “I will tell you he looked disappointed that you weren’t home, if that helps at all. I didn’t read it, but he did ask me to make sure you got it. It’s on his chair.”

“All right. I’ll read it once I get inside.”

She looked at him for a moment, then hugged him. He was surprised at first but then carefully hugged her back. Only Molly had hugged him since he’d come back, but there was something different about this hug. It reminded him of the hugs his mother had given him when he was a young child and he’d been picked on for being different, a hug of comfort and strength. She let go first and gave him a wider smile when she stepped away. She got into the cab and he watched her leave before he went inside.

Sitting on John’s old chair was a letter. His hands were shaking slightly as he opened it and began to read. It was short, and for that he was thankful.

_Sherlock,_

_I’ve done some hard thinking. I’ve had a lot of conversations in my head, imagined all the ways I could write this letter. I should be talking to you face to face, which I hope will happen when I deliver this. There’s a lot that happened in the three years you were gone, many bad things, but also many good things. And some of those things…I don’t think they would have happened if we’d carried on the way we had. I don’t think I would have gone after Mary and had the relationship I’ve had if you were still there when I met her._

_I guess what I’m trying to say is that I understand why you did it, and I accept it. I still don’t like it, but if you hadn’t jumped I’d probably be dead by an assassin’s bullet, and that isn’t the outcome I would have wanted. If you’re willing, I’d like to try and repair our friendship. I can’t get those three years back, but if I keep pushing you away then it makes me a bloody coward. You had saved my life. I shouldn’t give up on you for doing what needed to be done so I could keep living. If I’m not there when you read this, give me a call. We can meet up somewhere and really talk._

_John_

A smile formed on his lips as he read. This, this was good news. This was a good start. He pulled out his phone, pulled up John’s number and hit the send button. It rang twice before John picked up. “Hello?”

“Hello, John,” he replied.

“Sherlock. I’m glad you called. You read the letter, I suppose?”

“Yes. I have a case right now, but I won’t get the evidence I need for a few hours yet. Are you free now?”

“Yeah, I’m free. I can come over in about…” There was a slight pause. “Twenty minutes. Where do you want to meet?”

“The deli?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“All right. See you then, John.”

“Okay.” There was another pause. “I’m glad you’re back, by the way. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes. Yes, we do. I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay. Bye, Sherlock.”

“Good-bye.” John hung up and Sherlock did the same. He grinned wider and headed back towards the door. This made a good day even better, he realized, and that was a grand thing.


	2. Chapter 2

He was not surprised the letters and photographs were delivered by Lestrade three hours later. He had expected that. What did surprise him was the company. Prentiss had joined him, carrying two cups of something warm in her hands. He had expected the drinks to be for herself and Lestrade, but she pressed a cup in his hands as soon as he had put the evidence down, saying it was fresh coffee to make up for his cup that morning getting cold. He took it and thanked her, and she smiled at him. There was something in her smile that seemed similar to Molly’s smiles, something heartfelt and genuine. He decided it was a nice smile.

“Well, if you two will excuse me, I have other leads to follow,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

“Do you mind if I stay?” Emily asked Sherlock. “Greg mentioned something about how you usually have an assistant but he’s not around right now. I was thinking I might volunteer my services. For this case, at least.”

This was another surprise, he thought. But even though he and John were friendly again, John had not volunteered to help with this case. An assistant would be nice. “All right.” Then he turned to Lestrade. “Oh, you should know John and I are currently making amends.”

“That’s good,” Lestrade said with a nod. “I know you two are close. It’ll be good to see him accompanying you on your crime scenes again.”

“It won’t be as often, if at all. We haven’t talked about that yet,” Sherlock replied.

“Ah,” Lestrade said. “Didn’t know that.”

“Well, it’s to be expected. He has a new life now, as a husband and soon to be father.” He shrugged slightly. “I suppose with me it’s an urge that can’t be denied.”

“Sometimes I feel the same,” Lestrade said with a slight chuckle. “After everything I had the choice to retire gracefully. I told them no, I still wanted to solve cases.” He nodded to Prentiss. “I suppose I’ll leave you two to your work. Call me if you get a lead for me to chase down.” And with that he left.

Prentiss looked at Sherlock. “I get that urge, too. I like the help I can give with this job, but there’s times I miss being in the thick of things.”

“I can imagine. I looked you up this afternoon. You have been quite busy in your life.”

Emily grinned slightly. “I did my research on you too, Sherlock. Do you really think you’re a high functioning sociopath?”

He nodded. “It was something a doctor told me once. It’s stuck.”

“I think it’s bull,” she replied, and he blinked. Anyone else who heard the diagnosis left it alone, and she was refuting it? “I was a profiler. I’ve run into my fair share of sociopaths, and psychopaths too, along with all sorts of nasty people. Trust me, if you’re a high functioning anything it’s probably some form of autism. A sociopath wouldn’t have friends he’d fake his death for. He wouldn’t give up his freedom for anyone, wouldn’t let anyone get that close.”

“I suppose I shall have to defer to your expertise,” he murmured, moving over to the evidence bag.

“I will admit I’m not a doctor. That’s just how I see it,” she said with a shrug, following him. “Moriarty’s network of criminals popped up on our radar a few years back. I was still with the FBI when you started taking them down. Very few deaths were involved. That surprised Clyde an awful lot.”

“That I didn’t kill many people?” he asked, taking the photographs and letters out of the bag.

“Partly. But mostly because you managed to single handedly take down an entire criminal network with mostly intimidation and a few well-placed injuries. You accomplished in three years what Interpol had been trying to do for at least ten. Clyde asked me to keep tabs on your activities for him when he left.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t trying to get me arrested for my crimes,” he said, looking at her.

“I studied the killings. They were all deemed to be self-defense of an unknown victim. I thought we might have had a serial killer on the loose, and then Clyde told me he’d heard you’d faked your death from a reliable source and you were simply trying to get rid of the organization once and for all.”

“And who was his reliable source?”

“Your brother. That’s the other reason Interpol stayed out of your affairs. Your brother asked us to, and threw the weight of the government behind it. Said it was in the best interest of the United Kingdom.” She looked at him intently. “I personally think he was right. If that network had been allowed to function after Moriarty’s death, it would be a much worse world to live in.”

“You sound as if you’d had to make those kinds of decisions before,” he remarked.

“There was a man in my past that I hunted down, while I was with the FBI. I had to fake my death to escape him. I ended up coming out of hiding when his son was kidnapped. I cared about his son very much.”

“And the man?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“I suppose, deep down, I did care a little. He died in the end, but his son was safe. I think that was all he wanted. It was a very complicated relationship.”

“Ian Doyle, correct?”

She nodded slowly. “How did you know?”

“My brother was the person I talked to about you today. I like to say he is essentially the British government. It’s not that far off from the truth.”

“I see,” Prentiss said with a nod. “And what else did he tell you about me?”

“You worked at Interpol before the FBI, you made a name for yourself with Quantico’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, which has only the brightest profilers in the FBI working for it, you faked your death after your Interpol team was killed while dealing with Ian Doyle and his escape from prison, you lived in Paris and Denmark for a time, you returned to the FBI but left again after a case involving a bank robbery gone wrong, and then you came back to Interpol, this time in a position of leadership and not as a field agent.”

“That’s a lot about my work history,” she said with a nod. “Anything else?”

“You were, until your return to Interpol, not in any exclusive relationships, and the one you started when you arrived here ended recently. You have a cat named Sergio which you brought from the United States. You’re an omniglot and fluent in at least three languages besides English, two of which are Russian and Spanish. You enjoy good books, mostly classic literature, and you have a hobby of collecting rare first editions of your favorite stories. He also told me that Ian Doyle’s son now lives with you, after having been placed into foster care in the state of Maryland. You got an expedited adoption before you left for London. He’s known as Declan Prentiss now.”

She chuckled slightly. “I’m impressed. Your brother has done his research.”

“I suppose.” He looked at the letters. “He approves of you, in your position. Says he likes working with you more than Easter.”

“Because I’m more likely to let him throw his weight around?” she said with a grin before taking a sip of her coffee.

“Because you know that sometimes sacrifices need to be made and rules need to be bent for the best interest of the world,” he said. “Plus, I believe he finds you more attractive than Easter.”

She nearly choked on her drink. “Your brother is _so_ not my type,” she said, shaking her head.

“He realizes that, I assure you,” he said with a faint smile. “But if he has to be closeted in a room with you or Easter you are easier on the eyes.”

She smiled slightly. “That’s the best roundabout compliment I’ve gotten…well, ever. I’ll have to thank your brother for it the next time I see him.”

“Well, you are striking, I suppose, with your dark hair and dark eyes” he replied. “You’re shaped more like a classical beauty, though you’re more muscular. I think I prefer your hair curly as it is now, though. I saw pictures of you in your FBI days with straight hair and it looked more severe.”

She nodded slowly. “Thank you for your own compliment, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“If I didn’t actually know you and Mycroft were brothers I never would have guessed. There are similarities, but not many. He doesn’t have your eyes, for one. And I doubt his hair was ever as curly as yours.”

“He favors our father whereas I favor our mother,” he replied. “I suppose I was the luckier one.”

“Yeah, I think genetics definitely dealt you a better hand,” she said, her smile widening. “Enough personal talk. We should start working on trying to figure out the code.”

“Let’s move the photographs and letters to the table, so we can see everything better. The contents from his desk were delivered earlier in the day, and the books as well.” He gestured to the tubs piled up by the table. “I had just started to go through them when you arrived.”

“How about I take the books and you take the codes, see if any ciphers become apparent?” she suggested, moving over to the nearest unopened tub.

He nodded. “That sounds like a good plan. I’ll take the contents of the desk as well.” He took the letters and photographs and spread them across the table as she opened the tub and began going through the books. They worked well together, he realized after the first hour. She didn’t reply to every muttering or comment he made, and she sometimes did as well, which was the first time he’d run across someone else who did it while solving cases. It was unexpected but welcome, knowing that there was someone else who had similar methods as him.

Soon another hour passed, then a third, then a fourth. He might not have registered the time at all except his stomach started to growl. He had been eating better since his return, but when he was deep in thought he only ate when his stomach reminded him, and that was a habit that hadn’t changed much even all these years later. She set down her book, a slightly amused look on her face. “Maybe we should take a break and get something to eat. I know I skipped lunch today, and you probably did too.”

“That is true,” he said with a nod. “It’s nearly five now.”

“I’m surprised my stomach didn’t start growling first. I had breakfast at six thirty this morning with Declan and then nothing. Know any places that deliver?”

“There are a few, but there is also the deli next door.”

She shook her head. “I’m thinking Chinese. I’m in the mood for sweet and sour pork and some eggrolls.”

“I believe there is still a place nearby that delivers,” he said, going into the kitchen to look at the flyers that had come in the mail. Prentiss followed him and stood nearby as he went through the papers. Finally he pulled a flyer out and she stood next to him. “I haven’t tried it yet, but this is the closest.”

She took the flyer. “What do you want? My treat.”

“Cashew chicken and potstickers, with lo mein noodles.”

She nodded, reaching into her pants pocket for her phone. “I’ll go place the order.”

She dialed the number on her phone and Sherlock registered she was placing their order as he went back to the letters and photographs. He was almost sure that he was close to cracking it. He went back to work until he heard a knock on the door, but when he moved to go answer he saw Prentiss head that way first so he went back to work. It wasn’t until he could smell the food that he pulled himself away again. “Thank you, for this as well as the coffee.”

“No problem. You can make it up to me by buying me a meal next time we get too involved in work,” she said with a grin. “Where are the forks? All they gave were chopsticks.”

“I’ll get some,” he said, pulling himself away from the letters. He went into the kitchen and got her a fork before going to the food. She took the fork as she continued to open the cartons, placing some in front of her and others closer to him, careful not to put them near the evidence. Then she pulled up a chair and began to eat, and he did the same. It was strange to share a meal with someone after all this time of being alone. He had been unsure of what to talk about, and was saved from having to initiate conversation when she began to tell him about the books she had been going through. They stuck to talking about the case for a little while, and then a thought that had been nagging at him came to the surface. “Why did you leave the FBI?” he asked when they were nearly done.

She looked down at her carton of friend rice. “There are a lot of reasons,” she said. “The biggest was that DC didn’t feel like home anymore. I loved my team, and on the good days I loved my job, but I’d spent all that time living away from them, living a whole other life. And I guess going back to what I had been was harder than I’d thought it would be.”

“I feel that way myself, now,” he said with a slight nod.

“You would know how I felt, wouldn’t you?” she mused, looking at him and tilting her head slightly. “It’s not very often I meet someone else who had to fake their death to protect people.”

“I will admit I haven’t met anyone other than you,” he said. “It puts us in a rather unique club, so to speak.”

“The Death Fakers. Sort of like the Death Eaters, except we don’t have really cool tattoos,” she said with a smile. He must have looked confused because a chuckle escaped her lips a moment later. “It’s a Harry Potter thing.”

“Ah,” he said with a nod. “I don’t have much knowledge about that.”

“You must be one of the few in the world,” she replied. “The guy who was one of the Doctors on Doctor Who played a Death Eater in the fourth movie.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Not the one with the floppy hair and bowtie.”

This time her laugh was much heartier. “No the guy who played the Doctor before him, the one who wore the suits and the Chuck Taylors, David Tennant.” She looked at him. “You don’t know what a Death Eater is but you know who Matt Smith is?”

“John used to enjoy that show,” he said quietly. “I would usually ignore the episodes but he convinced me to watch one or two.”

“I’m surprised you did,” she said.

“I believe John was trying to broaden the scope of my life,” he said, looking down at the last of his lo mein. “I don’t think he was very successful.”

“Well, maybe someone will pick up where he left off,” she said. “It doesn’t hurt to do things for fun sometimes.”

“What do you do for fun?” he asked, looking at her.

“Sometimes I go to see plays on the West End,” she said. “Sometimes I go hunting for rare books at the local bookstores. And sometimes I just veg out and watch some familiar shows on DVD.”

“Those all seem like things you do alone,” he said.

“Sometimes Declan goes with me,” she replied. “But most of the time I’m alone. Like you said earlier, the relationship I got into when I got here ended recently.” She looked back at her food. “It wasn’t all that serious, but it was nice to go places with someone else.”

“I’ve thought about things like that while I was gone,” he said, more to himself than to her. She looked at him after a moment. “I spent a large amount of my life alone, and I had just started to make friends when I had to give them all up, I suppose. While I was gone I wondered what I might do if the opportunity presented itself to have real friendships with them, and with others I might meet.”

“It doesn’t hurt to have more friends,” she said, her mouth slowly inching up into a grin. “God knows I could use a few more myself.”

He smiled as well. “Then, perhaps, you wouldn’t think it too forward of me to ask for the opportunity to become a friend?”

“I think I would like you as a friend,” she said with a nod. “I’ll give you a chance.”

“Thank you, Emily.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.” She took one last forkful of food and set her carton down. “Let’s get back to work. Declan’s old enough to be home on his own but the later out I am the more he worries.”

“If you need to leave I can call you if I have a breakthrough,” he replied, setting aside his carton as well.

“It’s okay. I can spare a couple more hours.” She gave him a wide grin and then got up and headed back to the last tub of books. She opened the lid and pulled out a beat up older book. “This probably isn’t the best way to treat a Bible,” she said, turning it over.

“I suppose most Christians would look at it as sacrilege,” he said with a slight shrug.

She opened it and began flipping through it, and suddenly her eyes widened. “I think I might have found the cipher.”

He was over to her in an instant. She handed him the Bible, and he saw on the first page the code and a series of numbers. “These are all scripture passages.” He looked at the first piece of code and then flipped through to Genesis 3:15. The first letter of the scripture, N, was circled. He then went back to the first page and looked at it, then found the corresponding scripture, Esther 1:9. The first letter of that scripture, Q, was circled as well. “The first letter of each scripture corresponds to a piece of the code. There are thirty-six different pieces of code. Most should be letters, and some will be numbers, I’m assuming.”

“Using the New King James version was smart. Most people have access to that version,” Prentiss said with an approving nod. “You’ll crack the code in no time.”

“Hopefully I can decipher what everything on the back of the photographs and on the letters means,” he said, taking the book back to where he had been working. “Which are the photos you recognized?”

She began flipping the photographs over until she ran across one of them. “This one is Kristen Avanti.”

Sherlock looked at the code on the back of the photograph, then quickly began flipping through the Bible. He had pulled over a pad of paper and as he deciphered each letter and number he wrote them down. After twenty minutes he straightened up. “Kristen, New York City, 17, non-virgin, 16K, sent to Denmark, Mr. 12957” he read off his paper.

Prentiss had been nodding as he read off the translation. “She was 17 years old when she was abducted from Queens. 16K is probably how much she was sold for, and Mr. 12957 is probably the person who bought her.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied. “We’ve stumbled onto a sex trafficking ring, I believe.”

“But what was Berlanti’s part in it?” Prentiss asked.

“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.” He was about to say more but he stopped as his phone went off. He pulled it out and pulled up a text message. “Perfect timing. Molly has finished the autopsy.” He turned to Emily. “Care to make a trip to the pathologist’s office?”

“Sure,” she said, going to the chair she had been sitting in and grabbing her trench coat before slipping it on. “Lead the way.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock and Prentiss walked into the morgue at St. Bart’s. Molly was leaning over a body, scalpel in hand, and when Sherlock cleared his throat slightly she started, her head popping up quickly. “Sherlock! Next time don’t give me such a fright. I was about to make an incision.”

“I apologize, Molly,” he said with a slight smile.

“It’s all right,” she said, giving him a smile in return. Then she noticed Prentiss. “Hello. You must be the woman from Interpol Greg told me about. I’m Molly Hooper.” She extended her hand, then noticed it was the hand with the scalpel in it. Prentiss chuckled slightly, and Molly looked down. She blushed as she set the scalpel down. “You must think I’m daft,” she murmured.

“On the contrary, I think we just surprised you,” Prentiss said, shaking the re-offered hand. “I’m Emily Prentiss.”

“Nice to meet you,” Molly said as she shook Prentiss’s hand. She let go after a moment, picked up her scalpel and set it on the tray she had near the body. “I have your results in the office. Give me a moment and I’ll get them ready for you. Greg hasn’t even gotten them yet.”

“Take your time,” Sherlock said. Molly left the room and he turned to Prentiss, who was examining the body Molly had been about to cut into. “I imagine seeing dead bodies doesn’t bother you.”

“Not really,” Prentiss said, walking around the table. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen one up close, though. Two in one day is kind of a big deal these days.”

“I can imagine,” he said.

“Do you know Dr. Hooper well?” Prentiss asked, moving to the side, her gaze still on the body.

He nodded. “She helped me fake my death. When I disappeared, she and my brother were the only two I kept in contact with.”

“JJ was like that for me,” Prentiss said. “If I hadn’t had her I don’t think I would have kept my sanity.” She moved to the other side of the body, across from Sherlock, and then finally looked up. “I’ve never really gotten to talk to anyone about it. I mean, I did a bit with my friends, after I came back, but they didn’t really understand. But you do. Maybe I can talk to you about it?”

He nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he said.

“Good,” she said with a grin, one he answered by smiling a bit himself. “When are you going to tell Greg you cracked the code?”

“Probably later this evening, when I deliver the autopsy results,” he said. “Then I will most likely stay up all night actually decoding the letters and photographs. Once we have names and locations we might be able to find some of those women.”

“That would be good. I’m sure there are so many families who want closure.” Emily looked down at the body again. “It’s going to take a long time to find them, if we do at all.”

“A friend once told me you should always have hope.”

“That’s a smart friend you have,” Prentiss said with a nod.

“Well, she might be pleased to hear that when she comes out with the autopsy report,” he said, his grin widening. “I told her it was utter tripe.”

Prentiss chuckled. “I think Dr. Hooper might be much smarter than you, Sherlock.”

“Perhaps,” he said, inclining his head slightly.

“I think it would be wonderful to be considered smarter than Sherlock,” Molly said as she opened the door to her office. “Sorry, it’s not a thick door. I could hear everything.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock said.

Molly looked at him and blinked, then smiled. “A grin looks good on your face, Sherlock. You should wear one more often.”

“I haven’t had much occasion to be happy as of late, though it seems that is changing.”

“Is John talking to you again?” Molly asked. He nodded, and he grin got wider. “That’s great news! Maybe he’ll speak to me again soon.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied.

Molly shuffled her papers slightly. “Cause of death was exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds,” she replied. She handed the papers to Sherlock and then walked to the wall of drawers, pulling one open. Prentiss and Sherlock moved over towards her. “The killer wasn’t facing him for the first few stab marks. That was where there was the most hesitation. He must have fallen and the killer got more confident. Roll him over?”

Sherlock rolled the body to the side slightly and looked over to his back, where Molly was pointing. “Yes, I see more hesitation in the wounds on his back.”

“He was aiming for the heart, but the weapon was rather dull. There’s evidence of him using two different knives.”

Prentiss leaned in slightly, then walked around to the front of the victim. “I can see the wounds in the back are smaller than the ones in the front.”

“I would check to see if there’s a knife missing from the kitchen,” Molly said. “Also, an interesting note. He had an interesting tattoo on his arm.” She nodded to Sherlock, who rolled the body back, and then he came around to look at his other side. Molly pointed to the tattoo, and both Sherlock and Prentiss leaned in. “It seems to be a very strange style of writing.”

“Maybe something that identifies the organization he’s a part of?” Prentiss asked Sherlock.

“Possibly.” He stood straight again. “Thank you very much, Molly.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.” She handed him the report. “Could I speak to you for a moment alone?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said with a nod.

“I’ll just go outside. Do you want me to inform Greg of what we learned?” Prentiss asked.

“That would be good. Thank you, Emily.” He handed her the report and watched her walk outside the morgue doors. Then he turned back to Molly. “Yes?”

“You need to spend a lot of time with her,” she blurted out.

He blinked slightly. “What?”

Molly blushed slightly. “I’m sorry. It’s kind of presumptuous of me, but I heard your conversation. None of us understand what you went through, Sherlock. We try, but we don’t get it. She does. I think it will do you good if you talk to her about…well, everything. I get the feeling she’ll understand. Maybe that will help you.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed help,” he said with a frown.

“How many times have you called me early in the morning to talk since you got back?” Molly asked, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t give you what you need in those conversations. Maybe she can.”

“Point taken,” he said with a nod. “Very well, I will see if I can talk to her about the experience. May I still call you as well?”

“Only if you stop calling me after midnight,” she said with a slight chuckle. “I need my sleep, you know.”

“I will try and be more considerate in the future. Thank you again, Molly.” He began to walk to the doors.

“Oh, and Sherlock?” Molly called out.

“Yes?” he said, pausing to look at her.

“You have a fantastic smile. Try and use that one more than your fake one. You’ll get better results.”

He gave her a genuine smile in response. “I’ll keep that in mind.” With that, he left the morgue. He saw Prentiss a little further down the hallway, lowering her phone. “Well?”

“Greg was happy you cracked the code. I told him we’d try and get as much done tonight before meeting up at Scotland Yard tomorrow.”

“We?” he said, raising an eyebrow slightly.

“Declan is perfectly fine staying home alone for a while, as he’s assured me in the past. Let me call him and tell him not to wait up, and then I’ll help you decode more of the letters and photographs. It will go faster if there’s two of us.”

“You realize I probably will not sleep tonight,” he said.

“That’s why coffee was invented, Sherlock,” she said with a smile, putting the phone back to her ear. She turned and began to walk and talk to her adopted son at the same time, and he followed, small smile still etched on his face. Perhaps Molly’s advice was sound, he thought to himself. Emily would be a very good friend to have. Now he just hoped he didn’t muck things up.


End file.
